Never Let Me Go
by anondracomalfoy
Summary: There's a boy with hair the color of glittering diamonds and a girl who spends a lifetime falling in love with him.


_**Never Let Me Go**_

She's eleven years old and has no idea what she'll do if she isn't sorted into Slytherin. It's been a tradition in her family for years, and Narcissa can't help but to brush her clammy hands against the dark robes her mother has gifted her with for the occasion. The Sorting Hat has been said to place family members in different houses, and as she casts a wary glance over towards the table that her two elder sisters find themselves seated at, she briefly wonders how devastated her parents will be if their youngest daughter ends up in Gryffindor. She quickly casts her blue eyes to the ground, willing herself to remain calm. One thing is for certain-no Gryffindor has ever been this petrified before. Surely she'll escape the confines of _that_ dratted House; her father simply won't allow it. That much she knows with absolute clarity. She feels someone's shoulder brush against her own and instinctively lifts her head to meet his gaze. His hair is the color of diamonds, she thinks for a moment, and out of the corner of his eyes he is glancing at her in a state of mild interest.

"I'm going to end up in Slytherin," The boy murmurs to her after a moment, his voice so soft that Narcissa is almost convinced it's nothing more than a figment of her imagination. But then the corners of his lips are twitching into a self-satisfied smirk, and she can't help but to study him in wonder.

"You don't know that," She chides gently, fisting her hands in the soft cotton of her robes. Oh, her mother will be _outraged_ if she ruins them.

"Of course I do," The boy scoffs with a slight shrug, heaving a heavy sigh as though her contradiction is absolutely ridiculous. She wonders what makes this boy so certain of himself-why he has no fear of being placed in another House.

"You should be in Slytherin, too," The boy continues when she finds that speech has escaped her, and out of curiosity she cocks her head to the side slightly. "It is, after all, the greatest House."

She wants to respond and ask him why, why, why, but then her name is being called, and with legs made of gelatin Narcissa weaves through the disorganized cluster of anxious first years and places herself on the hard wooden stool that sits in solitude at the front of the Great Hall. It is cold and firm, and as the aging Witch in charge of roll call picks up the tattered Sorting Hat and places it on her head, Narcissa is certain that her heart is going to beat its way directly out of her chest.

But then the hat calls Slytherin, and her sisters whoop and shout for her from their position at the Slytherin table. She is in shock-she is relieved and calm and determined that she will live up to the title she so desperately desires to cling to; to belong in. And as she seats herself between Bellatrix and Andromeda, shakily reaching for a goblet and taking a tentative and much needed sip, she can't help but listen and watch as the line of students thin out and the diamond-haired boy is called.

He is placed in Slytherin, too. And he _smirks_ at her.

* * *

She's in her second year at Hogwarts and has possibly never met anyone more arrogant than Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. She sometimes see him tag along with an elder Housemate, Rodolphus Lestrange, when they're lounging around in the Common Room. She often times finds this amusing, for Lucius attempts to convince people he's more of a lone wolf (or serpent, really, if you want to get technical) than anything else. She identified him immediately as the bright-haired boy she'd met a year ago at the Sorting, and he has since verified himself as more than worthy of being called a Slytherin. Some tell her that he takes after his father-that he has been raised to believe and act as though he is superior to the rest. She thinks he is in the right House for that alone; the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs especially push blood integration more aggressively than anyone she's ever known. Narcissa knows that it's mostly talk with Lucius; that he's more than likely all bark and no bite, but she can't help but study him and wonder on some days when she is alone doing work in the Common Room.

"What are you working on?" He asks her one day when the older Slytherins are off doing things of more importance. She pauses briefly, glancing down at her parchment before responding-

"Just some Potions homework."

"My family excels at Potions," He boasts, seating himself next to her. She notices that his eyes remind her of the color of smoke, studying the swirling shades of grey before realizing she has yet to respond to him.

"That's nice," She manages quietly. Small talk has never been a strong suit for the girl-her mother scolds her for this; a descendent of the Black family must always pride herself on the ability to converse well with others of her kind. But she's not so sure Lucius Malfoy is one of her kind-he's so...so blunt in his superiority. He reminds her of her elder sister, Bellatrix, though in a different sort of manner. Bellatrix is nearly manic in her egotism. Lucius is...trying to prove something. When she says nothing more he shifts, squirming uneasily in his seat. She knows that he would like to continue the conversation, but her disinterest in listening to Lucius Malfoy boast about his potential future achievements is causing her to bite her tongue and refrain. What her mother doesn't know won't harm her, certainly.

"You know," He continues again, straightening the collar of his robes. "I think the color green suits you and I-not enough people wear the shade these days."

She pauses, briefly considering his words and suppressing the urge to giggle. Finally, when she recovers the ability to speak, she sets down her quill and turns to face him.

"We're in Slytherin," She deadpans, blinking twice. "Everyone wears green."

Lucius Malfoy grows very flustered after that.

* * *

She is nearly halfway through her third year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and wonders how time has flown past so quickly. Bellatrix is preparing to leave the school under the claims that she has bigger and better things waiting for her outside of N.E.W.T. scores and final marks, but she won't tell Narcissa what it is. She has taken to keeping to herself mostly these days, occasionally whispering to Narcissa never to forget where she comes from or who she is. Andromeda is growing quiet as well, though Narcissa suspects for a different reason. Sometimes Narcissa will swear she sees her elder sister glancing swiftly over at the Hufflepuff table, but she can't be for certain. She keeps these things to herself, though-Narcissa has always been taught that family is of highest value, and the bond between family members comes first. Blood is thicker than water, she would sometimes hear people confess.

Her blood is thicker than most things.

Lucius boasts proudly these days-sometimes he strikes up conversations with her; sometimes he sits next to her in the Great Hall. It's not that she detests his company, merely that she has no idea how to handle him. He's a complex creature, Lucius Malfoy, with his hair sparkling like diamonds and his eyes as thick as smoke, but she keeps these thoughts to herself. He has tried to impress her a few times in the past, but she doesn't think much on it; he is a very proud figure, and she knows that he attempts to impress anyone who will sit still long enough to listen. But despite his elevated impression of himself, he falls short in the opinions of members of other Houses.

One day while she is resting in the courtyard and working on a Transfiguration assignment, she hears a disagreement stirring the air. Lucius Malfoy has gone head-to-head with a man in Hufflepuff she doesn't quite know; she thinks his name is Ted, though she can't be for certain. The latter seems to be taunting the former, and try as she might to focus on this blasted essay she's got due, the youngest Black sister can't help but overhear. Ted is insulting Lucius' heritage under the premise that Lucius has yet again made reference to the much-needed segregation between those of pure blood and those of filthy heritage. She wants to gather her belongings and leave, but instead decides to stay. The grass is warm and tickles the exposed flesh of her knees, and her fingers grip the crinkled parchment that the wind is struggling to tear from her delicate grasp; she feels as though the Earth has grown still around her. She knows that she can go and join the other girls in her year in the Slytherin Common Room and gossip about the feud, but they bore her and she has no need for inane chitchat. She notices that Ted (_is_ that his name?) is angry now; more so than she's ever thought a Hufflepuff was capable of. She has always been under the impression that Hufflepuffs are generally kind and dim-witted, though she presumes that if any animal is beaten down enough, it will snap back in retaliation. Two of the Mudblood's Housemates are restraining him as he struggles to claw Malfoy's eyes out, though the pale-haired heir can do nothing but snicker at the elder boy's admittedly pathetic attempts. Ted's robes are flapping behind him in the breeze that sweeps the grounds, and Narcissa's breath hitches in her throat the moment the enraged Wizard spits out an insult even _she_ isn't aware anyone possessed the audacity to utter.

"I'd say the reason your family's so bent out of shape about blood purity, Malfoy, is because you know there's a crack in your own lineage," Ted manages, trembling from head-to-toe. Whatever Lucius has said to him has clearly put this man in a rage; it is both astounding and frightening to behold. "Maybe the reason no one knows of your mother is because _she's_ Muggle-born. Maybe your own _mother's_ a Mudblood." Narcissa wonders why a Muggle-born like himself uses the word Mudblood so casually-she's old enough to know the weight of the insult and what it implies; she knows it well enough to understand it's an expected part of her own family vocabulary. She will learn later on in life that they use it to embrace who they are; that they identify themselves as the filth of the community to extract strength from the slur rather than weakness.

Lucius Malfoy grows still and sickeningly pale; he is as translucent as the ghosts that haunt Hogwarts. She notices a tremor race up and down his spine, and for a moment she wonders if he's going to _hit_ Ted. But Lucius Malfoy is above physical violence that does not involve the use of his wand, so he merely straightens his posture and spits at the crimson-faced man's feet, scowling and mumbling something else about the Hufflepuff's filthy heritage. He then stomps off, and Narcissa doesn't know why, but she feels herself drawn to him. Something about the fight has both perplexed and interested her, and before she can make sense of what she's doing, Narcissa gathers up her belongings and makes her way down the hill she saw Lucius Malfoy storming off to. The gust of wind causes her blonde hair to streak behind her like a smear of bright paint against the deep blue backdrop of the sky, and more than once she is forced to pull a strand away from her face so as to not block her vision.

She spots him slumped behind a tree, resting his fragile bones and pulling his hair away from his face. The sparkling mane of blonde hair she's grown to associate him with is shaggier than it has been the past two years-she's tempted to tell him to keep it like this. She likes it long; the way it frames his face and suits his aristocratic features does wonders for him. But she refrains. It's ridiculous (and also not why she's here). Lucius freezes the moment he acknowledges her presence, one slender hand fisting a handful of his shimmering hair; he looks almost like a sculpture, and Narcissa can't help but think that he would be regarded as universally attractive were he not so blatantly arrogant.

"Are you alright?" She finds herself asking; whether out of the manners that have been instilled in her or a genuine concern, she does not yet know. Lucius scowls at her, casting those smoky grey eyes to the ground and avoiding her intense gaze.

"My mother was _not_ a Mudblood," He declares finally, as though needing to prove something to her. She doesn't miss the way he strings his words together-they are delicate and fragile, like he is in that moment. _Was_. She suspects, in that instant, that his mother is dead; perhaps Lucius has never really known her. Perhaps she had died the previous summer. Narcissa can't pretend to know the young Wizard well enough to guess as to what may be the truth, but she is suddenly filled with the need to communicate something to him.

"I never said she was...though I'm certain your storming off might have alerted one or two students into believing as much."

"I don't care what they think," He defends, sniffing and pressing himself more firmly against the base of the tree. Narcissa disagrees with this; she thinks he has always cared about what others think of him. It's why he boasts so much of his family and his bloodline-it's why he goes to such lengths to prove his worth. A part of her wants to inform him of this, but she knows this isn't the appropriate time. Andromeda had told her once that boys like Malfoy have a complex much different than anyone she had ever known; she had warned Narcissa about boys like Lucius Malfoy.

"I suppose that's all that matters, then," She replies finally in defeat, sighing and clutching tighter onto her belongings. She has nothing left to say to him, so when she turns and glances back up at the top of the hill and deliberates on resuming her homework, she is rather shocked to hear Lucius' voice pulling her out of her thoughts.

"You're different than your sisters, you know."

"Is that meant to be a compliment?"

"Of course," He tells her, as though it was the most blindingly-obvious statement he's ever uttered. "Consider yourself flattered."

"I'd rather not," She replies primly, a ghost of a smile working its way across her face. If Lucius Malfoy wants her to possess an elevated opinion of him, she knows he'll have to use another approach.

At least he has the good graces to appear shocked as she saunters away.

* * *

Narcissa is nearing the end of her fourth year at Hogwarts when Lucius Malfoy approaches her. She's noticed he's seated himself near her and requested of her company more so this year than in any of the school years past, and with Bellatrix being gone and Andromeda folding further and further into herself, she finds his company more tolerable than she likes to admit. Most days he prattles on and on about himself-what his father does for a living (she suspects he does this because of the allegations against Abraxas Malfoy), what he thinks of Mudbloods (he hates them), and how he feels about segregation in the Wizarding Community (it's an absolute must, of course). Sometimes she talks about herself, but she's more than content to listen until his narcissism grows to the point of being intolerable.

She has noticed, as of late, that Lucius fixates on her more than he used to. He's traded in hanging around Rodolphus Lestrange and his gang of Dark Arts-loving Purebloods in favor of spending time with her, and more than once she catches him staring at her when they're in the Common Room or the Great Hall. She doesn't understand what his sudden interest in her has sprouted from, though she's not so self-important as to know for sure whether or not it is her he has _actually_ taken an interest in or if he's amused by the fact that he has finally found a willing participant that will hear him ramble on about his life.

So when he confronts her in the library as she struggles to locate a book necessary for Charms class, Narcissa really shouldn't be half as surprised as she is. His hair goes just a bit past his chin these days, and some days she wonders how soft it is; it still sparkles like diamonds in the sunlight, but she realizes that it looks as though it's made of silk. He tucks a strand of hair away from his face, and she observes that his eyes seem to be the color of molten silver today.

"I'm rich," He blurts out suddenly, and the statement is so puzzling and so utterly random that Narcissa can't help but drop the book she was holding in her grip. It flutters to the floor, splayed helplessly on the ground of the school's library. Blushing slightly, she bends down and picks up the worn tome, dusting it off before forcing herself to return her gaze towards him.

"And what's your point, Lucius?" She asks cordially, mystified by his proclamation.

"So," He continues, clearing his throat and tugging on the sleeves of his robes. "I-am a Pureblood."

"...Yes?" She inquires, slightly unsettled. "So am I-what of it?"

"So...you should come over to my house one evening for dinner this summer," He manages finally, leaning against the bookcase and resting his elbow on one of the shelves. Narcissa bites back the urge to laugh; that would be cruel, even if it was meant in a light-hearted manner. So instead, she tucks a straight lock of brightly-colored hair behind her ear, tugging the book closer to her chest and surveying the man before him. She hasn't noticed Lucius paying any sort of special attention to her before, but now that he is attempting to play the role of the collected, suave suitor, she can't seem to figure out when his interest in her first began. She's always merely assumed, of course, that his desire to prove himself worthy was a universal one. Now, however, she can't help but begin to wonder...

"My father would approve of you, of course," He continues, that superior sneer lacing his tone as he straightens his posture. One silky thread of hair falls over his shoulder, and for a moment Narcissa is fascinated by it. Perhaps if Lucius Malfoy was less conceited, she would find him charming. Perhaps she already does.

"Your father?" She remembers to ask, taken aback by how forward he's being.

"Yes-and seeing as how I'm a suitable match and all...more than suitable, really, given my _lineage_..."

"You're going to have to try harder than that, Lucius," She tells him, fighting off the urge to smile as she places the book she had been inspecting back on the shelf and makes her way down the aisle. He seems baffled by her statement and follows her further into the library, and for a moment Narcissa feels like the Wizarding World's biggest tease. But as she glances at him from where she is thumbing through a shelf on advanced charms, she can't help but note that he seems rather unsettled by her comment. She supposes he had been expecting to have his ego stroked.

Narcissa didn't fancy such things, of course.

"You aren't...impressed, then?" He asks coolly, the words thick as they fall off his tongue. She pauses for a brief moment, her index finger brushing against the spine of a tattered book with a faded title; part of her doesn't know how to answer him. Part of her has already formed the words and they hang on the tip of her tongue, delicate and clandestine. She knows he deserves some sort of response, though, so she releases her clutch on the books and turns to face him-straightening her posture and smoothing her skirt.

"I'm a Black, Lucius," She states, the pride her mother has always taught her to possess swelling and surging inside of her. "Impressing me takes some skill."

She doesn't know it, but he has sworn in that moment that he would acquire the exact skills he needed. She isn't aware just yet, but Lucius Malfoy is already infatuated with her a thousand times more than he is with himself.

* * *

It's the beginning of her fifth year at Hogwarts, and she has learned through word of mouth that Bellatrix has involved herself in a dangerous trade. She worries for her elder sister, though trusts that everything with Bellatrix will be alright-she knows what she's doing, surely, and she isn't the first Witch in her family to pledge an allegiance to Dark Arts. Andromeda is displeased with Bellatrix's decision, that much Narcissa is aware of-over the summer, she'd grown quieter and quieter. Narcissa will always remember walking into the sitting room one evening and finding Andromeda sitting on the couch with the book of their family's ancestry perched in her lap-she would run her fingers along the corners of each page, as though she was deliberating between the choice to tear the parchment to shreds or to caress it. Narcissa had been unsettled by this discovery, but Andromeda had paid her no mind; had merely sighed and said "get along to bed, dear Cissy."

Some days, Narcissa feels as though her family still regards her as the frightened eleven year old waiting for her Sorting. She likes to think that she has changed and grown-that she is more worthy of calling herself a member of the House of Black now than she's ever been before. She's quieter than either of her elder sisters-more reserved, and sometimes she even feels like less of a Slytherin. But she is a Black, and she is determined to make her family proud.

Lucius returns looking more physically mature than she's expecting. His hair is down to his shoulders now, and she finds it suiting on him; it compliments him in ways she hasn't been aware of before. He is lightly-corded with muscles and tells her he's been practicing on his broom. He claims he doesn't want to try out for the House team, of course, but the _exercise_ (Narcissa fails to see how much exertion is involved with riding around on a broom, though she keeps this comment to herself). He tells her that he has been made a Prefect, showing off the glittering badge with an undeniable amount of pride. She humors him, complimenting his newfound title as they walk to Potions together one afternoon. Horace Slughorn, their professor, seems keen on adding Lucius to his shelf of prized and notable students-she supposes this is a result from years and years of self-promotion. Slughorn doesn't ask for Narcissa to join his supposedly elite Slug Club, though she doesn't mind much. She is often quiet and solitary; there is no real reason for anyone to take note of her.

But Lucius does.

She is beginning to think he always has. Sometimes she catches him studying her in the middle of class-he always escorts her to class, and he is the first to join her in the Great Hall for meals. She supposes this qualifies them as friends, though she's not sure how she feels about this label. He befriends a first year this term-a young, greasy-haired quiet boy in their House who goes by the name of Severus Snape. This alone is an extraordinary feat, for Severus is a _Half-Blood_. She asks Lucius one day during dinner if he has perhaps broadened his views of the world and changed his mind regarding bloodline segregation, but Lucius informs her (sternly, she might add) that Severus is different. He doesn't act like he has any Muggle heritage in his bloodline, and for that the filth in his veins is excusable. She faintly remembers that her younger cousin, Sirius, is attending Hogwarts this year, but her interest in him dims when she discovers he has made it into Gryffindor.

Narcissa remembers that Andromeda is also a member of the Slug Club-revered first and foremost for her skills in Charm class and secondly in her above average talent with Potions-but her elder sister seems to reject this title rather than embrace it. She appears to force herself to bite her tongue more often than not these days, and while Narcissa is constantly curious as to what her sister has to hide, she does not probe. It isn't her place to invade her sister's privacy, and she knows this. She was raised right, she believes-respectably, even. Her mother will not approve of her prying into Andromeda's life-or even Bellatrix's, for that matter. So she stays silent, as she always has.

As she always plans to.

But towards the middle of the school year, Slughorn throws a party-a gala for his elitist and exclusive Slug Club students. Lucius invites her; he attempts to do so in the most casual manner possible, and while Narcissa still isn't impressed by his wooing strategies, she finds herself agreeing. Perhaps he isn't _quite_ as off-putting as she's convinced herself of.

For all of Lucius' faults, Narcissa finds herself commending him for his gentlemanly effort. He wears a dark suit that causes her heart to ache (much to her dismay), and those silky blonde strands of hair are accentuated in contrast to the dark attire he chooses to wear. He explains to her that his dress robes are of the highest quality, and Narcissa just smiles and clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She wants to tell Lucius that she isn't impressed by the flashy displays of wealth and status he so often brags about-that she has grown up with both in abundance and is no longer affected by their extravagance. But she bites her tongue because this is meant to be a night of celebration...and besides, he looks _damn_ good in that suit.

He dances gracefully, that much she'll give him credit for-with all the elegance of a man who had been raised in a proper environment, and she allows herself to be smitten for the night.

He leads her away from the laughing and dancing of the brightly-lit chamber in favor of leading her into one of the deserted corridors for the night. McGonagall is doing rounds near the dungeons, so he assures her they don't have to worry about getting caught. The air is chilled but a fire has ignited in her abdomen, racing and pulsing its way through her system as those slender hands of his wrap around the delicate curve of her waist and rumple the expensive fabric of her dress. She can feel his warm breath stirring against her being and rustling the soft tendrils of hair that frame face; it's a tickling sort of sensation, and try as she might to calm her racing heart, she can't. She allows him to kiss her-surprisingly soft, warm, and tender-and does not acknowledge until after she pulls away with kiss-swollen lips and lungs quivering for breath that she allowed him to kiss her not out of cordiality, but out of desire. So she kisses him again, simply because she can, and relishes in the taste of his person and the sensation of his mouth brushing against her own. He is her first kiss, and she wonders momentarily if she is his.

What startles her more is that she wants to be.

Narcissa acknowledges that she could have easily spent another good fifteen minutes or so doing nothing but kissing Lucius Malfoy in the shadows of a deserted hallway if not for the sounds that distracted them. They were frantic, desperate noises-heavy breathing and the jostling of flesh and bone against the sturdy wall of Hogwarts. Narcissa is abashed and Lucius is irritated, and as the couple make their way from the hiding spot they had claimed out into the open air, Narcissa's brilliant blue eyes lock onto the single sight that will haunt her for years to come.

Andromeda was pressed up against the wall, heatedly kissing a young man whom Narcissa faintly recognizes. Andromeda's fingers are curled into the messy hair at the nape of the man's neck, and it isn't until Narcissa let out a shuddering gasp that the two covert lovers notice her presence. When the Wizard that had been pressed against his sister pulled away, Narcissa remembers where she knows him from instantly-he is the same young man Lucius had gotten into an argument with during their third year. The Mudblood Hufflepuff...Ted.

Everything collapses at once, and Narcissa is certain she's going to faint. She feels confusion, aching and persistent, tear through the very fabric of her being. Andromeda? In love with a Mudblood? Since when? How? _Why_? The next emotion she embodies is shame-embarrassment and humiliation at the realization that _Lucius Malfoy_ is bearing witness to the chaotic shambles of her family. He has grown silent, and the shame only magnifies itself. The third emotion she feels is anger; rage hot white and tumultuous towards her sister and the Mudblood-to what they have destroyed and what they have created. She knows there is no going back after this, and no matter how desperately her older sister attempts to soothe her frazzled nerves, Narcissa knows that there is nothing that can be done. The damage is already too heavy to hold, and Andromeda's blood is running thin.

But the pleas of "Cissy please, you can't tell mother" cause her heart to rip at the seams, and Narcissa cannot help but keep her mouth shut. Partially because she was not raised to intrude on family business, and partially because she loves her sister still-she loves Andromeda despite what she has done, and she fears for what will happen to her should the truth unravel itself.

She leaves Hogwarts that year a changed young woman-without any sort of inclination as to what's meant to come. She promises to write Lucius but doesn't...she can't. She is too ashamed of what he has seen; too embarrassed of what her own flesh has done.

She misses his ridiculous attempts at wooing. Now, when her family is stitched together by a single thread, is when she needs him most.

But she is a Black, and she must not show need. She must rise above and move against the current. So she does...and falls into silence.

* * *

The summer is full of strife and turbulence, and more than once Narcissa finds herself pining for a sanctuary of peace. Just after her fifth year, Andromeda runs away from home to elope with Ted Tonks; it is a devastating frame of time in her life that she wishes she could Obliviate from her subconscious more than anything else. The only thing worse than her heartache over her sister's betrayal is her mother's rage-they are forbidden to speak Andromeda's name at home, and Narcissa knows better than to contradict her mother's fury. Druella has removed Andromeda from the family tapestry, declaring that no Blood Traitor is a daughter of hers. There's a blackened smudge on the wall now where her elder sister's name and portrait had once laid homage to, and sometimes Narcissa runs her hands along the charred lines as a sort of remembrance to her sister. But Narcissa feels anger as well-resentment that claws at her insides and destroys her very soul. She is infuriated with her sister-for leaving her, for leaving their family. For choosing a _Mudblood_ over them. Bellatrix stays with them for a week and tells her that they'll be much better without Andromeda anyway, and while Narcissa merely forces a smile and agrees along, she cannot help but feel as though a part of her has been chipped away.

She's just lost a sister. What else will she lose?

There is screaming-tons of bickering and shouting and words that make her want to hex her own ears off. She prays for the peace that does not come and wills away the thoughts that plague her heart. Bellatrix agrees to marry a former Slytherin by the name of Rodolphus Lestrange-Narcissa remembers him as the young man Lucius used to hang around, though she can't tell whether or not her eldest sister harbors any emotional attachment for the man. She does not think so-in all probability, Bellatrix has agreed because she knows it's a well-made match. It soothes their mother's enraged heart, and the wedding is hastily done before Narcissa is meant to head back to school. Her brother-in-law dabbles in the Dark Arts, she knows, but there's something about him much more _sinister_. Something that is now mirrored in her own sister. Bellatrix has changed before her very eyes-there is something disturbing about her sister these days, and Narcissa is fearful.

She was never meant to be a Gryffindor. Even the mere notion is comical; she fears too much to be considered foolishly noble or courageous. The fear is what eats her alive and rips and tears at her insides; it is what binds her to a life of solitude, she believes. It is why she keeps quiet while the world rages on around her.

A fifth year calls her a Blood Traitor at school. He spits the word-the filthy, _disgusting_ word that is full of malice and hatred. It feels like acid scorching her ears, and she instantly feels like a soiled Witch; forever tainted by her sister's rebellious nature. She is still struggling to swim against the current, but it grows harder and more unbearable with each and every passing day. Though Narcissa has her nose stuffed in the book she's reading for class, she can hear someone defend her; she can hear the scuffling of shoes as someone makes their way across the Common Room and slaps the offensive student. The sound of flesh smacking against flesh causes her head to jerk up from where she has been staring blankly at her textbook, a shaky inhale of breath the only thing she can manage as she acknowledges that bright flash of blonde hair that has been burned into her memory.

Evidently, Lucius Malfoy is not so high above physical violence as she has convinced herself into believing.

They don't speak about what he has done, nor does she want to. But he seems to understand what she's going through; he seems to accept it. He is quiet as he joins her on the couch, glancing over her shoulder and skimming along the lines she has been attempting to read for class. His hair is slightly past his shoulders now, and she is once more swept away by the sheer quality of it. She still harbors questions about what it feels like, his hair, and more than once has to fight off a blush. He doesn't call her a Blood Traitor-doesn't bring the term up or use it around her to discuss people who used to attend Hogwarts like Arthur Weasley or Molly Prewett. Instead, he sits and watches her. At one point his fingers brush against the delicate slope of her shoulders, and she suppresses the urge to shiver.

"Must have been a dull summer without me-I could liven things up now to make up for my absence, if you so desire," He quips at one point, and Narcissa finds herself shaking her head fondly and sighing.

"Again, Malfoy-you're going to have to try harder than that."

"Still not impressed?"

"Still not impressed."

Though he falls short in the art of wooing, Narcissa Black finds herself captivated by Lucius Malfoy. She spends most of her sixth year kissing him-sometimes on the couch in the Common Room when they know most other students are in bed or out and about; sometimes in the corridors late at night when they're breathless with the rebellion that comes with sneaking out past curfew. Once or twice she allows his fingers to graze against the tender outline of her breasts or up the soft curve of her thigh; his touch is near burning with intensity, and on nights when she can't help herself, she threads her fingers in his mane of diamond-colored hair. It is just as soft and thick as she's often times wondered, and it's during these moments that Narcissa is grateful for the arrogant man whose sturdy body is pressed against hers.

Lucius Malfoy is the most beautiful man Narcissa Black has ever known. He is collected and restrained when it comes to emotions, though she doesn't mind; she herself has never been inclined to lavish declarations of love or romance. He is the rock that steadies her in the eye of the turbulent storm that her family has turned into; he is the one thing that makes sense to her when everything else has fallen to chaos. He is turning into the single constant in her life, and Narcissa doesn't mind nearly as much as she should. He is far from perfect-he is more outwardly prejudiced and haughty than she is used to; he can be cold and reserved and have fits of anger, but she is willing to look past all of this. Because at the end of the day, it is Lucius' warm hand against her own or his lips brushing against her mouth and uttering a thousand unspoken words that reminds her that she is not totally alone. No one has ever made her feel half as important as he does; she wants the feeling to last.

She thinks-though she can't be certain-that she is falling in love with him. On days where she sneaks glances at him and attempts to figure it out, she wonders if this is what Andromeda feels for her new husband, Ted the Mudblood. She wonders if she would still feel the same way for Lucius whether or not he was a Pureblood and is instantly ashamed of herself.

Because she knows the answer. She's just too terrified to admit it.

* * *

She is in her last year at Hogwarts and really doesn't have much of a clue as to what she wants to do with her life. She does fairly well in all of her school subjects, though none of them in particular seem to really call out to her. She wonders if she even has a calling, or if she's destined to become a failure. She blames her inability to choose a profession on the disorder in her own life, though she's fully aware that's a pathetic excuse. Bellatrix has told her that change is coming, though, and Narcissa cannot help but believe it. There is a man-a man who speaks and breathes blood purity-and he has risen above them to declare war. Thus far she has only seen the sparks of something greater, though there is no denying that change has stilled the air around them. It makes her blood run cold on more than one occasion; Bellatrix claims that this man is superior. Voldemort is what they call him, and even the name itself feels like taboo on her tongue. Her sister claims that he must be referred to as the Dark Lord, for he is great and magnificent and everything their kind has been looking for in a leader, but Narcissa is still wary of him. Lucius comes back with the shimmer of war glistening in his silver eyes, and Narcissa is fearful again. Fearful for him, for her sister, for everyone.

Lucius tells her that his father would approve of him following this man-that everything he preaches is the sort of change they need. Narcissa often times hears him exchanging these values with his impressionable young friend Severus, who has already taken an interest in the Dark Arts. She sometimes sees Severus lurking around a ginger-haired girl; a Mudblood who has been sorted into Gryffindor. She wants to tell the greasy-haired boy that his lust for Dark Arts and Voldemort's cause will all be in vain if he continues to associate with the filth of the community, but keeps her mouth shut. It is not her place to tell others how to live their lives.

Many would say that right belongs to the Dark Lord.

Lucius claims that he can make a living off of being a soldier; that being admitted into Voldemort's inner circle is all he needs to maintain a fulfilling position in his life. She doesn't want him to take the Dark Mark; she doesn't want to risk losing him in the middle of battle, though she doesn't tell him. She forces herself to nod along with everything he says, all the while her heart is cracking and splintering inside of her chest. She is certain that she loves him now; that she would die for him and lie for him. She knows that the call of war is triggering to many excitable young Wizards-that the thrum and promise of a world led by fresh new faces under a new rule is what so many strive for. She knows that this same tug is pulling at him, and try as she might to keep a hold on the Wizard she has fallen in love with, she knows that Lucius will do what he pleases. Just as he always had, just as he always would.

"Just think of the promise it holds, Narcissa," He whispers to her one night as they lie out underneath the stars. She is silent as she observes the dazzling lights burning miles and miles above them; her throat is thick with emotion, but she will not cry. She is Narcissa Black, and she does not cry over things such as war.

"You and I can live in peace-together," He explains to her, and the drum, drum, drum of her heart is growing louder with each frenzied word. "In a world where blood segregation exists; a world made for you and I."

She wants to tell him that a world for him and her is a world where he lives and they are together, but she cannot bear to open her mouth and speak; her tongue is thick and her throat is throbbing. She knows she will cry if she tries to talk-but she can't, she can't, she can't.

"Narcissa..." He begins again, this time less certain than before. She clears her throat, blinking the glistening tears from her eyes and humming to acknowledge she's heard him.

"Do you...ever think about a life together after Hogwarts?"

The question is so ridiculous she wants to laugh. Instead, she heaves a jagged sigh and nods her head.

"Always."

* * *

The first time they make love is the most glorious act she has ever engaged in. She is wary of what it will be like; if he will be turned off by her or somehow find her inadequate. But he is tender and affectionate, and while the sting and the loss of her virginity is very, very present, it is not so overwhelming that she wishes for him to pull away. It is not just sex; it's not fucking or losing themselves in a rough and carnal tryst. It's making love to one another-it is joining her body to his in the most intimate of fashions. It's feeling her heart beat steadily against his own and savoring the sweet touch of his warm, bare flesh rubbing against her body. Her hips move in tandem with his own, and though Lucius Malfoy is anything but overtly-emotional, he breathes a single word into her skin over and over again. It's a symbol of love; an indirect confession that what she feels for him he returns in abundance.

_Mine, mine, mine._

* * *

They marry on the brink of war; there has been talk of a Wizarding War for years now, but she's certain she's about to watch the world erupt around her. It is a time for haste-a time when many young men and women, not unlike her, are binding themselves to one another in a time of distress. She fears that if she does not marry Lucius now, she might not ever receive the opportunity to. Her parents approve of the match, of course; he's suitable for her and most everyone knows it. Some whisper that she only desires to marry him because his family's heritage might help to esteem the stained mark against her own. It's those words of criticism that hurt the worst; the realization that people assume she would use him. Many don't seem to realize or understand-others don't wish to. They don't know that he has become so much more to her than a suitor: he is her best friend, her lover, her confidant. They work as a pair, he and she, and she cannot imagine a life without him by her side. The boy with the dazzling hair that glittered like diamonds when she was eleven has grown to mean so much more, and the thought of losing him in a war is too painful to bear.

She will grow older and many people will accuse her of much worse-they will say that she is abused by her husband; they will say that she is a battered woman brainwashed into silence. They will whisper crude things about her family behind her back and claim they should have assumed as much the moment her elder sister turned Traitor, but with time she will learn to brush off the comments. Because there is much worse that can be endured in the world, and even now she knows this.

She is about to learn how severely, though, and as Lucius dances with her on their wedding night, she can't help but fear for the worst. She has never been involved in a war before-she only has a vague idea of what to expect. So she brushes it off-she laughs and smiles and plays the part of a wife infatuated and devoted to her new husband and nothing else. And on their wedding night, as he pulls her close and crinkles the expensive material of her wedding gown, she wishes they could stay like this forever.

"I know what won you over," He claims.

"What's that?"

"My charm and ability to woo you."

She has the good graces to laugh.

* * *

By the time Lucius finally takes the Dark Mark, war has erupted so entirely around them that it has destroyed the very fabric and institution of life Narcissa has been raised upon. She was taught how to behave like a proper Pureblood woman, not trained to be a warrior. She cannot handle the sight and odor of death and decaying bodies-it unnerves her and sullies her once unspoiled mind. She is more often than not a wreck; her body is lined with marks and scars from battles she has no choice but to engage in; people she has grown to know as classmates crumble around her, and she fears more than once that she will stumble over the corpse of a family member. She thinks she is not cut out for war-that it's not in her mold; it rattles her to the bones and stains her very skin with the stench of regret. Though upon reflection, she supposes no one is really created for such destruction. War is something man creates-with his hands, with his greed, with his lust for power and dominance and anger. And no one is immune to it-she has learned this through the numerous casualties she's been forced to witness.

Every day she fears that her husband will never return home, and while Voldemort terrifies her and she is forced to acknowledge that she will more than likely never be accepting of those of inferior birth, she can't help but hate the man who has done this to her. To the family she is just starting and the life she wishes to lead. She fears him, but she also cannot stand him. He preaches of blood purity, yet he stains the ground beneath him with the soldiers of so many Purebloods who die for honor and segregation.

She can't bear the thought of her husband joining them.

Much to her relief, however, things begin to simmer down as time goes on. She is permitted to maintain station at home-in the regal Manor her husband's late father has left them with-and Lucius joins her whenever he can manage to. He is usually weary and exhausted from hours of fighting, yet they always find the time to topple down onto the sheets and unravel one another so entirely until they're both sated and exhausted. It's these moments that she cherishes most; when she can be with him and block out the world surrounding her. It has made her desperate, this war, though she conceals the depth of her feelings-she has a sister who will die fighting for what she believes in and a husband who likes to convince himself that he will.

She also has a child on the way.

* * *

He's born on a warm spring evening at the beginning of June-she doesn't like to tell herself that he's a product of war. That he was conceived on a night where she was so drunk with the sight of her husband home from battle that all that mattered was reconnecting what she feared they would lose. She tells herself that he's a product of love, and as she brushes that small tuft of white blonde hair from his head and cradles the newborn in her arms, she's able to convince herself of as much. She hopes he grows to look just like his father-she wants him to inherit Lucius' smoky grey eyes and brilliant blonde hair. He's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen, and although she knows Lucius will never be able to say so out loud, she can tell he agrees.

She calls him Draco because he is her shining star in the dead of night-he is the constellation that helps to pull her to the surface in the dead of war. Because he is the hope that she has desired for herself and her husband for years now.

He is all they need.

* * *

Narcissa sees much of Lucius in Draco-he is proud, headstrong, very opinionated...he is so much like his father that at times it startles her. He is the most beautiful thing she has ever made, and often times she watches him play in the backyard with his friends while she shares tea with Priscilla Parkinson and Gemma Goyle and reflects on how lucky she is. She and Lucius were both able to escape imprisonment in what followed the falling of Voldemort-she listened as he explained their conflictions and agreed with what he had to say. Placing her family in danger is the last thing the young mother wants-she has heard that her younger cousin, Sirius, has been thrown in Azkaban for the alleged betrayal of Harry Potter's parents, James and Lily, and Narcissa can't help but worry that she and her husband nearly met the same fate. Her sister is deep within the cells of Azkaban prison as well, and although Narcissa wishes to visit Bellatrix, she is also aware that her sister is an entirely different person now. She would preach and whisper hushed taboo about the Dark Wizard who had supposedly fallen, and Narcissa would force herself to nod and go along with it. She had hoped this would convince Lucius to ignore his Dark Mark, but it appears to have done anything but. He is firm in the belief that the Dark Lord will rise victorious once more.

She is terrified that it will one day become a reality.

But she bides time. She spoils her only son, she helps her husband and he helps her in return, and she prepares for the settled life she has dreamt up for years now. War has made her into a woman, as loathe as she is to admit it, and the proof lies in the lines crinkling her face and the dark circles tinting the fair skin beneath her eyes. War has hardened Lucius into a man even prouder than he was when they were in school together; she tells him on some nights that he acts like a boy, and he grows frustrated and tells her that she simply doesn't understand what he's trying to do for them-for _her_. She doesn't care about the Death Eaters anymore; in theory it might have been an idealistic view, but as with most things, the reality was more than a little upsetting.

She just wants to move on. She just wants to live in peace and forget the rage and destruction that has been left in their wake.

But she knows it's too good to be true...she knows that he's still out there somewhere. And she knows he is coming for them.

* * *

The devastation of her life happens right around the time of Draco's sixteenth birthday. With the love of her life imprisoned for a crime he has committed against the humanity of the Wizarding World, it falls on the shoulders of her son to correct the problem. She offers to take the Dark Mark in his place, but the Dark Lord refuses-she knows this isn't about a lack of soldiers or a dwindling number of available Death Eaters. It's about revenge; it's about punishment. It's about assigning her only son to commit a deed she knows he is incapable of so that Voldemort can laugh bitterly as he watches their family deteriorate beneath him. She tells Draco not to take the Mark-that they will figure out a way around their dilemma, but he is restless. He is anxious to prove himself; to his father, to the cause, and to the world. But mostly, he is apprehensive about saving them-he isn't a small child anymore, and he understands the consequences of his actions. He knows that execution will be the grim fate that awaits him if he fails the task that has been laid out for him.

But he's just a boy.

He's _her_ boy.

She seeks assistance where she can find it-Severus is a grown man now; he is no longer the simpering, impressionable young man who gazes up at Lucius with doe eyes and lips parted in wonder. He is a man who has hardened-she assumes he has lost something precious to him, though no one knows what that might be. His parents, maybe, or a lover, though she has never seen Snape intimate with another being in the entirety of her life. She knows that if anyone will aid her in saving her son and protecting her family, it will be him-her sister, on the other hand, doesn't seem to think so. She is skeptical of Severus, but Narcissa brushes this off as a side effect of the deranged woman's paranoia. Bellatrix is more unhinged now than when they were children growing up together.

Narcissa aches for those days. She pines for them on days where she can do nothing but drown her sorrows in the very silence that suffocates her. She has followed her husband into a world of darkness-of despair and false hope, and she desires for nothing but release. But if she feels the weakness ebbing away at her frame, she refuses to let it control her. She offers her hand in exchange for the Unbreakable Vow because she knows that war is the one thing that cannot destroy her any longer.

It has already taken too much of who she is.

* * *

Narcissa Malfoy is forty-three years old when she witnesses the Battle of Hogwarts. It is much worse this time; a thousand shades more violent and consuming than the First Wizarding War. She has much more to lose this time than she ever has before-she worries for Lucius, for her sister, for herself...but she has a son now, and if she cannot make it through this world alive, then she'll go down protecting him. War has made a disheveled mess of the woman who once prided herself on her manners and elegance; her hair is matted with dirt and debris, and there are stains of a grotesque color dotting the dark robes she is wearing. She gives Draco her wand because his survival is more important than her own; she will make do with one of the reject weapons left behind at the Battle at Malfoy Manor. She has made due for a while now, and surely she can do so for one more day. She doesn't know where her family is, and as everything tears to shreds around her, Narcissa must remind herself that she is a Black, and she does not cry, does not cry, does not cry.

She does not break in the face of war. She does not let war destroy her.

She destroys it.

So when Voldemort demands an answer to a question that has plagued him for close to twenty years now, Narcissa bends down and allows her hair to cover her like a veil. She whispers the inquiry that has been dying to flee her lips for hours now, and the response she receives-a stiff nod of the head-is enough to send her into a state of exhilaration and relief. So she stands with all the poise of a woman who knows her place in the world, brushes the dirt from her skirt, and turns to face the crowd of expectant Death Eaters with a solemn mask on her face. And she pronounces, in that moment, the one word that shapes the rest of the war.

"Dead."

* * *

She finds it in her to hope that the Killing Curse does not inflict much pain onto the victim. She has heard that it must hurt less than a curse or a hex, for it kills the opponent instantly, though she's uncertain as to whether or not this is the truth. But as she gazes down on the aged face of her eldest sister, she cannot help but wonder what Bellatrix went through to get here. She was Voldemort's last, great lieutenant, and even in death she seems restless. Narcissa thinks to close her sister's eyes, and despite the harsh glances of Order members who shift by her, she orders them to step away from Bellatrix's war-weathered frame. Her sister might have been a monster to the world, but she was still flesh and blood. And as her mother had told her growing up, blood is thicker than most anything.

She overhears a conversation nearby from a disgruntled child and his friend who discuss that Nymphadora Tonks has died at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange, and Narcissa can feel her heart clench and her mind spin at this onslaught of information. She recognizes the name of the former, and knows the latter by heart. Bellatrix has killed their only niece, and Narcissa knows that no amount of good will could ever provoke Andromeda to forgive her for that.

Bellatrix's hair is clumped with dried and cracked blood-it is tangled in knots that even magic won't be able to remove, and as Narcissa's hand grazes her elder sister's jaw, she remembers the childhood they shared. She remembers the three of them, and how their differences at one point brought them together. It has torn them apart today, and Narcissa feels at once the pain and remorse of a woman who has just been left the last of her kind. Andromeda may still be alive physically, but they are no longer sisters. Narcissa knows this and has accepted it long ago. She lost her sister that day back before her sixth year at Hogwarts when Andromeda ran off with her Mudblood and left them behind. The loss of Andromeda was before the birth of her son or before she realized her love for Lucius-it involved an enraged mother and the burning of a member off of the family tapestry.

Perhaps Andromeda has never been a Black-maybe she's always been destined to be a Mudblood's wife and nothing more. But Narcissa is still bitter over her departure.

She hears that Andromeda's husband, child, and son-in-law have been murdered in the Second Wizarding War. She feels for her elder sister, though she does not attempt to contact her.

She knows her presence is no longer desired there. She knows that part of her life is over-a burned bridge which she has sworn herself to never look back on.

* * *

Draco brings the word of a Mudblood home to them, and Narcissa is certain she's never seen Lucius so infuriated in her entire life. She's more perplexed than anything else-she wants to know when her son had a change of heart; when his views of the world had shifted from black and white to a dozen shades of grey, but she can't find the will to speak. He's grown impassioned, Draco, defending his choice and exclaiming that he's tired of trying to live under the shadow of his father. She is unable to do much but watch for the first few minutes as the two men who are most important in her life argue with one another-Draco has always been known to grow more emotional in fits of rage, and Lucius has slipped back into his cold and domineering ways. Her son claims that he has felt an attachment to this Witch for a few years now, and Narcissa cannot help but feel as though she has failed as a parent. Not because her son is in love with a Mudblood, but because she hadn't known.

Hermione Granger. That's who he identifies her as.

Oddly enough, Narcissa is reminded of her sister. Not the one whose body she buried not long prior, but of the one who had left her long ago. She looks upon her son and thinks of Andromeda-of a young person lost in the throes of passion and climax and desiring love above all else. She remembers the charred stain where her sister's portrait had once held place on her family's tapestry, and she thinks of the world that separates them. And while she may never understand her sister's decision in life, there is one thing Narcissa grows to understand with complete clarity that day.

She does not want that life for her son.

So she speaks to Lucius when they are alone. They have grown up together-have known one another for nearly all of their lives-and she knows that if he's willing to listen to anyone, it's her. Their bones are weary and broken from the years of turbulence and war that's aged their delicate frames; she is no longer the frightened young girl staring up in wonder at the boy with sparkling diamond hair, and he is no longer the small boy boasting of pride and nothing more. To the world they may be the same, but she knows how much has changed and shifted between them; she has known Lucius at his highs and revered him at his lows. He is still the love of her life, and as she whispers words of comfort to him in bed that night, she knows he always will be. Her fingers run along the age lines and wrinkles that line his weather-beaten face, and she whispers of a life where their son is happy; where he is free to make the choices that no one before them ever had. She knows that he is stubborn and persistent and will always hate Mudbloods, and maybe she will too, but Draco is their son and she is sure he will grow to understand.

She remembers asking herself when she was a young girl if she would feel the same way about Lucius if he had been a Mudblood; if she would have been as desperate for him as Andromeda was for her husband. She had been petrified of the answer before. But now...with one sister deceased and two parents long gone, she is able to muster the courage to utter the single confession that has been dangling on her lips for decades.

Yes. She would.

* * *

She has lived a long life, she thinks, as she reaches the age of what she knows is meant to be her expiration. Her bones ache and creak when she moves, but she still finds it in her to find her way to their bed every night. He has grown emaciated and brittle, and though she will never admit so out loud, she is aware that the aura of death hangs around him like a cloud. Life has seen him fit for removal; he has lived a full life alongside her, and she knows now that it will be his time to go soon. She knows she won't last long after he is gone-their child is long grown and married, and their grandchildren are growing with each and every passing day. She knows that Lucius will never be accepting of the match, though he is more tolerant now than he ever was.

"Narcissa." He whispers her name like a plea almost, and it reminds her of the way that he used to murmur it when they were children. She presses her exhausted frame against his own, savoring how snugly she seems to fit against him even after all of these years. Her hand falls to find his in the dark, squeezing it once and feeling the cool metal of their wedding bands clinking together in the stillness that surrounds them. She knows that he must be aware of the approaching death as well, though he says nothing about it. She prefers it this way; she prefers falling silent and allowing the world to move on around them. It's when they are like this that she feels most at peace; that she has always felt the most at peace.

"I know what won you over all those years ago," He rasps finally, and she can hear the smirk on his lips, even if she cannot see it. His response is ingrained into her memory, and she is mouthing the words even before he finally manages to say it.

"It was my charm, wasn't it?"

"Horrible charm," She manages finally, and suddenly she feels like a child again. She is terrified-petrified of losing him, of leaving Draco and their grandchildren behind. She doesn't think she's ready to leave the life she's led with him behind, though she knows she must. She has never been a lioness-she has been terrified and vengeful and so full of hatred and malice. She will never be Bellatrix or Andromeda, but perhaps that is the greatest thing about her. She has come into her own over the years, and the fear of falling behind and getting smothered in the shadows of her sisters has come and passed. She knows that she owes a lot of this to him-that no matter the wrongs he has committed and the person he might have once been, that she would not be herself fully without him. It is hard to imagine breathing without Lucius; to be a beating, living thing and not having him by her side. And it horrifies her to think about. So when he speaks, she has to struggle not to cry. Because she is a Black, and Blacks do not cry. But she supposes there are circumstances when it is acceptable; when she is permitted to show her emotions and allow the walls she has crafted to keep herself and her family safe to crack and show her vulnerabilities...because this is Lucius and he is the only person who will ever completely understand.

"I love you, Narcissa," He manages, as if he knows it's the last time he'll be permitted to utter the words. She nods in the silence that follows, responding brokenly with-"I love you, too."

"I don't want to leave you."

"You never will. You're always with me."

_I'll never let you go._

* * *

**a/N**: Hello everyone! This is another piece I've written for Ollivander's Challenge on Tumblr. I don't usually (and by usually I mean never) write fanfiction that doesn't revolve around Dramione, so this was a bit different for me! It's the prompt that stuck out to me most, though, and I have to admit I have a soft spot for the Malfoys. The prompt I chose for week three is-"Narcissa Black isn't very impressed with Lucius Malfoy's attempts to woo her." I hope you all enjoy it! Marauders/First Gen Era isn't generally what I do, so I know that I probably wrote in some of the characters a bit differently than how most people accept them. Either way, commentary is much appreciated! Thanks and have a great day, everyone :).


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